Page 42 of Pulling Strings

I’d avoided the communal shower since my arrival. Watching prison movies had given me a healthy fear of the place. Don’t drop the soap and all. But seeing myself through Holland’s eyes had been a rude awakening. I looked like I’d been living under a bridge and smelled about the same.

Loaded with my shower tote and a threadbare towel, I made my way to the bathrooms. Open stalls lined the wall opposite a trough-style sink. A sheet of polished metal served as a mirror, where I checked my reflection as I passed. Thin and grungy in wrinkled coveralls, I could disappear in this place. Part of me felt like I already had. As uneventful as my prison stay had been, I wished for a bit of theatrics. Was everyone here as clueless as Clyde? Enamored by my alter ego and entirely disinterested in me?

A bolted-down bench made as good a spot as any to set my things. I’d managed to grow enough facial hair to be scruffy, so a shave took precedence. Digging into the tote produced a bar of soap and a small plastic razor with a single blade. I was about to either cut the shit out of my face or fail to cut anything at all.

The bar soap made a passable lather, but the razor raked across my cheeks like sandpaper. I rinsed off and was checking for missed spots when two new arrivals entered the bathroom.

Jax and his tall friend, York, strutted in. Besides the towel thrown over York’s shoulder, both men were empty-handed.

I ran the razor under the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain until Jax crowed, “Fitch Farrow!” He closed the gap to me, baring his sharp teeth in a grin. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Funny question because I’d been everywhere and so had they. The difference was Clyde had been there, too.

“Well, you found me.” I palmed the razor. “But I’m on my way out.” Sliding down the sink counter, I reached for my tote.

Jax stayed on me, uncomfortably close.

“Really?” he asked, his head just over my shoulder. “Because you look like you came for a shower. Look like you need one.”

I turned into him, ready to shove past if I had to. “Maybe later,” I said. “Couldn’t get the water hot.”

My step toward the exit was interrupted by his arm, held level with my throat.

“Oh, York here can help with that.” Jax’s yellow eyes angled toward the other man. “He knows everything there is to know about water.”

I glanced at York, glistening with that same unnatural sheen I’d noticed before. The dude was a few scales short of fishy.

Jax took hold of my shoulder and turned me toward the shower area. Grime covered the tiled walls and floor around four fauceted pipes. Without even a partition, there was plenty of room for the three of us to cluster around a corroded showerhead.

York moved to the wall. He pulled the towel from his shoulder and dropped it on the floor, then twisted the knobs till water spewed out. I stared at the discarded towel getting soaked while Jax yammered on.

“See, the trick is to mix the two knobs,” he said. “Kinda old school, but so’s everything around here.”

Steam began to rise.

Jax thumped his hand on my back. “There you go. Nice and toasty.” He beamed a feral grin.

York stooped to retrieve the soggy towel while Jax watched me with unmasked expectation.

“Why dontcha get in?” He gestured to the water pouring out. “Unless you’re shy.”

The air around us grew heavy and damp. Did they expect me to strip down in front of them? Lack of privacy was one thing. Voyeurism was something else entirely.

“If you wanna see my dick, man, just ask.” I dropped the tote but made no move to undress. Instead, I glanced back to where York had blocked the path out of the bathroom. His lanky body obstructed my view, but I managed to identify another figurelingering in the hall outside. Mohawked Jette Black stood guard. My grip tightened on the safety razor.

“Funny, funny,” Jax said. With him in front of me and York behind, I was thoroughly boxed in. “I see you’re still flaunting that tattoo.” He nodded at my hand. “You know, you’re the only thing stopping me from getting one of my own?”

Bad news, Clyde had warned me.

I needed to get past York to flee the bathroom but, with Jax within arm’s reach, he made the easier target. I jammed my thumb against the head of the plastic razor, snapping it off at the handle. It was a flimsy weapon, designed to fail at what I needed it to do, but I had no better option.

Lunging at Jax, I swiped for his throat. The shiv caught his flesh and tore. I finished my swing, ripping through what I thought was a hell of a gash until only a thin, stuttering line of blood beaded on the other man’s neck.

That didn’t stop him from howling in pain. He staggered into the shower stream, where his blood tinged the water pink.

“You bitch!” he screamed.

Adjusting my grip on the razor, I dove toward him again, aiming for his jugular.

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